


this is classified

by 8611



Category: Marvel (Comics), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Multi, SHIELD, Skrulls - Freeform, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose, and wonders how he ended up in a hotel lobby in the middle of Manhattan at 2am with an oversexed SHIELD handler. (SHIELD!AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is classified

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canistakahari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/gifts).



> So, I promised [canistakahari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari) a Jim/Bones/Derek sandwich. It was supposed to be porn. Instead somehow a plot got involved, and this happened. Evidently I shouldn’t be trusted to write porn. Still, she does get her snark singularity of Bones + Derek (and that particular singularity line is actually something she said about them). Merry belated Christmas bb! <3
> 
> This takes place in the same verse as [the company house](http://archiveofourown.org/works/569726), but has nothing to do with it. It just also uses the not so teenage not-werewolves being SHIELD agents thing. Also, how many fandoms can I possibly squeeze into one fic? This is like the fandom kitchen sink.

If McCoy has learned one thing in his life, it’s that these types of people and places tend to like orphans. McCoy’s mother is still alive, his father died when he was 27. McCoy doesn’t fit into these places like the others do, and he’s more than all right with that. 

Jim’s father died the day he was born. Jim’s mother took her own life a few months later. Jim bounced around foster homes for a number of years because no relatives wanted him, and then these people had come in, and snatched him up and swaddled him in schooling and quiet little things that later they’ll build on, little things like _here’s what to do if someone tries to take something from you_ or _here’s how to fly under the radar_. 

Here’s how to shoot a gun. Here’s how to knock a man’s legs out from under him. Here’s how to snap a neck, slash an artery, poison a body, take someone’s life away from them with your hands. 

McCoy is in intelligence. McCoy spends a lot of time shuffling through paper work and computer files and teasing information out of people and places. 

Jim is wet work. Jim has a body count longer than his arm. Jim smiles at him, the first time they meet, and then, later, just hours, Jim fucks him. 

If McCoy has learned a second thing in his life, it’s that he gets involved with the wrong people. 

\---

“McCoy?” 

He looks up from the email he’s writing to see Chapel in the doorway, holding a folder. 

“What’s up?” He asks, and leans across the desk to take the folder (seriously, could his office be any smaller), flips through it.

“You’re being called into the field,” Chapel says. “The New York office wants you.”

“Any particular reason?” McCoy asks, and he frowns down at the papers – most of them are largely blacked out, and sitting at the bottom of the pile is a license, passport and ticket with a different name than his usual cover. The company is neurotic, he swears. He’s an analyst, he can travel on his own identity and no one would care, but he still has a cover when he travels. The fact that this one is new though is strange. 

“Someone needs you for a project,” Chapel says, shrugs. “Sorry. I know you hate that all.”

McCoy doesn’t just hate fieldwork, he _really_ hates fieldwork. 

“Worse things have happened,” McCoy sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and Chapel takes a few steps forward to give him a bit of a pat on the shoulder. 

“Try not to yell at anyone too badly,” she says.

“I don’t do that.”

“You made the new guy cry two weeks ago.”

“He killed the coffee maker.”

“Ok,” Chapel says with a grin, “he did kind of deserve it.” 

The ticket says that he’s out of DCA on the 7:15 to LGA, so he heads home a bit early and packs his sadly small life into an equally small duffle and starts panicking in the car on the way to airport, as is usual for him. At least he’s not going to Germany this time. Or Turkey. That was over ten hours. He thought he was going to have a grabber at least three times. 

They don’t plunge out of the sky and scatter bits of plane and people all over New Jersey, which McCoy is infinitely thankful for. He could have taken the train, he wouldn’t have minded getting in late. His psyche would not have been any more damaged by a four hour train trip. 

The hotel is boring and small. He’s sensing a pattern in his life at the moment, but he supposes that’s what he gets for being a government employee. He stares at the room service menu for a very long time before there’s a knock at the door, and he frowns, gets up to check the peephole. There’s a blond on the other side of the door, slouched and hands in his pockets, and he’s staring straight at McCoy.

“I can see your shadow under the door, open up,” he says, smile easy, and before he opens the door McCoy heads back to the closet, fishes his gun out of his bag, and tucks it into his waistband at the small of his back. 

Blondie is about his height, wearing a leather jacket and jeans (and high tops, McCoy notices), and grinning like he’s very pleased with himself. 

“McCoy?” Blondie asks.

“Who’re you?” McCoy doesn’t really feel like letting this guy into his room. 

“Jim Kirk. I’m your SHIELD contact,” he says, and then pushes past McCoy into the room. “You’re going to be briefed in the morning, but in the mean time I’m supposed to bring you up to speed on the organization and keep you from fleeing the state at the mention of our name.”

“I know what SHIELD is,” McCoy says, kicks the door shut with a frown. 

“Also, I’d prefer if you don’t shoot me,” Kirk says. “I know you’re armed.”

“I hate your type,” McCoy grouses, but he does place the gun down on the dresser. 

“That’s nice. You want food? Don’t order room service here, it’s total shit – there’s a great sushi place around the corner though.”

“I don’t do sushi.”

“Your loss. Burgers any more pedestrian and to you tastes?”

“Burgers are fine. What makes you think I want something to eat?”

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten yet. C’mon, stop whining, come out and get burgers with me. I promise I won’t try to kill you or anything like that. Look, I’m not even carrying.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Welcome to New York, even I’m scared of the cops.”

That gets a laugh out of McCoy, and Kirk grins. McCoy goes to get burgers with him. 

\---

They end up at a bar, even though McCoy had insisted that they shouldn’t be drinking on the job. Kirk had waved it away, shaking his head. 

“No one cares, we’re dealing with the end of the world most of the time anyway, drink all you want.”

“I feel like I might need it, if the world is ending.”

“It’s not currently, but you might need it anyway.”

“How does that go for you guys, anyway, the world ending all the time?”

“Ok so far,” Kirk says. “I wasn’t involved in the last, ah… operation. Not exactly my territory.”

McCoy just shakes his head, takes a sip of beer. They’re in the smallest corner booth of the smallest bar that McCoy has ever been in, and the crowd seems to be some frenetic mix of suits and hipsters who are doing an amazing amount of mingling. 

“Which reminds me, why do you want me?” McCoy asks, because he’s still not sure how SHIELD enters into this trip.

“Because you’re tall, dark and snarky and I have a feeling you’re built like a brick shithouse under that ill fitting suit.”

“Ok, a) my suit is not ill fitting, and b) I mean SHIELD, not you. Also, no.”

“Your loss. SHIELD wants you because you’re known for dealing with incredibly weird situations and not batting an eyelash, and you’re also very good at your job. Plus, you’ve got no one to spill any beans to.”

“So basically you guys want me because I have no life and that makes me an excellent analyst.”

“Correct.”

“Gosh, I feel like I’ve really achieved something with my life. My mother will be so proud.”

“Your sarcasm is really kind of impressive.” 

McCoy just smirks, leans back against the worn leather of the booth, and stares at the little TV above the bar. The grim news anchor is talking about something to do with the situation in Syria, which luckily McCoy has had nothing to do with. That’s all paramilitary. He’s a desk jockey who occasionally gets sent various places that aren’t war zones. 

When McCoy looks back at Kirk he finds unnervingly blue eyes leveled at him, and he frowns across the table. 

“Need something?” McCoy asks, not taking his eyes off of Kirk as he takes another drink. 

“No,” Kirk answers, although he’s still sizing McCoy up. McCoy wonders why – he knows he looks like he’s built for field operations, but his clearance is for intel only. Kirk has to know that, if SHIELD tasked him to McCoy. McCoy can fire a gun because that’s something that everyone with field clearance, no matter the type, has to learn to do. Aside from that, there’s nothing remotely operative or solider-like about him. 

Kirk walks him back to the hotel, and when he ends up in the lobby with him, McCoy glares. 

“I can find my own way back upstairs,” McCoy points out. 

“Invite me up,” Kirk suggests. McCoy just boggles for a moment, glad that the place is deserted and free of little tourist families. 

“What, for coffee?”

“Seriously, you need to figure out how to weaponize that sarcasm of yours, it’s magnificent.” 

“I don’t sleep with random people.”

“I’m not random,” Kirk says, and then he’s in McCoy’s personal space, raising an eyebrow.

“Kid, if you think you’re smooth enough to play Bond, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Like you?” Kirk looks quite pleased with himself.

McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose, and wonders how he ended up in a hotel lobby in the middle of Manhattan at 2am with an oversexed SHIELD handler. It sounds like the start of a horrible buddy cop movie, only with porn. 

“You’re not married, so girlfriend? Boyfriend? Friend of indeterminate gender?” 

“No friends,” McCoy growls. 

“You should get some,” Kirk says. “So what, I’m not your type?”

Actually, Kirk is _exactly_ his type, except for the fact that he’s a guy. McCoy’s always been a sucker for cocky blondes who are too pretty and know it. 

“I haven’t had sex since my divorce,” McCoy finally sighs, rubbing a palm across his face. 

“Which was like what, three months ago?”

“A year and a half.”

“Oh fuck,” Kirk actually looks worried now. “How has your head not exploded – wait, never mind your head, how have your _balls_ not exploded?” 

“Oh my god, we just met! You can’t say things like that!”

“Sex is a great way to make friends.”

“Jesus Christ you’re obnoxiously persistent.”

Kirk’s got a dazzling smile when he wants to. He also has a scar across his lower back, down across his right hip, and McCoy ends up digging his fingers into that raised skin about an hour later when Kirk is fucking him into the headboard. 

\---

McCoy wakes up the next morning aching in various places that he’s not used to aching in, and rolls over from his stomach onto his back with a groan, throwing an arm across his eyes. Either he’d forgotten to set an alarm, or he’s up before it. 

He presses his other arm out into the tangled sheets, figures out that Kirk isn’t there, and forces himself to sit up. It’s when he’s rubbing at his eyes that he notices someone is sitting in the desk chair, reading the _Post_. 

His gun is halfway across the room. There are one of two things going on here: either Kirk is a shape shifter (he can’t remember if SHIELD hires mutants or not), which is downright terrifying, or he’s about to be kidnapped by the Broody Hunk reading the newspaper. 

“I’m Kirk’s partner,” the person says, and ah, that answers that. McCoy relaxes with a sigh, flopping back against the headboard. “He went out to get coffee.”

“This is so strange,” McCoy notes. “I, uh-“

“If you think you’re the first person I’ve seen naked with Jim’s bite marks all over them, I should probably mention that we’ve been partners for six years.” Broody shuts the paper, sets it down on the desk, and crosses his arm. He’s got a scowl that McCoy is kind of jealous of, which sounds beyond ridiculous the moment he thinks it. 

“That doesn’t make me feel much better,” McCoy mutters. “I don’t know how this even happened”

“Because Jim Kirk.”

“That’s a horrible reason.”

“Pretty much.”

“I’m just going to get out of bed now.”

“The agency took any sense of shame or modesty I had and set it on fire before shooting it and dumping it over a cliff.”

“Are all SHIELD agents this jaded and horrible?”

“It’s in the recruitment pamphlets.”

“I hate my life,” McCoy grumbles, sweeping the sheets back and going to take a shower so that he can try to get some of Kirk off of his skin, although the bite marks (which are disturbingly prolific) aren’t going anywhere. 

When he’s clean, dry, and dressed, he finally peeks out of the bathroom to find that Kirk’s reappeared, taken up residence in the other chair in the room, and now appears to be flipping through something on a tablet while nursing an extremely large Starbucks cup. 

“Hey, there you are,” Kirk says. “You met Derek?”

“Not officially,” McCoy says as he sits down on the end of the bed.

“Derek Hale, Leonard McCoy. Derek, McCoy,” he says, gestures between them, and Derek gives him a little nod, which just makes McCoy raise an eyebrow. Kirk hands over the tablet, and McCoy finds himself flipping through digital copies of the documents he’d gotten back in DC, only these aren’t blacked out anywhere. 

“So you’ve lost an agent,” McCoy says after a bit of reading. “You guys have analysts, don’t you?”

“We’ve been spread a little thin,” Kirk says. “And you’ve tracked down SHIELD agents before.”

“Pretty sure I’d remember that.”

“They were fed to you under false pretenses. The two CIA assets from last year? Our agents.”

McCoy frowns, isn’t particularly liking any of this. 

“I didn’t do that alone,” McCoy says. “I work with a team.”

“Christine Chapel, Michael Puri, Geoff M’Benga,” Kirk says, and McCoy’s not really shocked he knows about any of his coworkers. “You want any of them for this?”

“Don’t drag them into a witch hunt for some super who’s probably gone off grid to sulk,” McCoy says. 

“She’s fully human,” Derek says. “And was last seen in Rome.”

“Then get me a computer with database access and everything you have on her,” McCoy says. 

“We’ve got a safe house in Rome set up, you’ll have everything,” Kirk says. 

“I can work from here,” McCoy says, glares. “I don’t have to go to goddamn _Rome_.”

“Didn’t they tell you that you’d be onsite?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, _here_ ,” McCoy growls, crossing his arms. “I’m not planning on leaving until the job’s done.”

“Too bad, Rome awaits,” Kirk says. 

“Have I mentioned lately that I hate my life,” McCoy grumbles. Derek checks his watch.

“Yeah, about 58 minutes ago,” Derek says. McCoy glares at him. 

\---

McCoy is sitting in a café on Piazza Navona, laptop open in front of him and espresso by his elbow. His hands are still shaking, almost six hours after they landed, and he knows from experience that the only thing that can make him stop shaking is caffeine, no mater how counterproductive and backwards it sounds to the sane part of his mind. 

The world is going on around him, a different world than the one he just left, than the one he works in, and they all slot into places into his head, two familiar (he’s been to New York enough that he knows it now) and one new. He’s never been to Rome before, never known these streets and this piazza and the sky over his head. The people are dressed more colorfully than he’s used to – there’s no city as drab and stormy as DC when it comes to clothing – and he lets himself fit in with the hum of the buildings and the people. 

He takes another sip of his drink and then returns to scrolling through the intel he’s been provided with. They’re evidently on the tail of a Contessa (which seems very silly and outdated to McCoy), who’s a SHIELD agent with unfortunately high clearance, considering she’s gone off grid. McCoy’s actually surprised she’s done so, because according to her files the director of all of SHIELD had been the one to hire her. You clear that type of shit before hand. 

Derek and Kirk show up eventually, both of them wearing sunglasses and leather.

“Your incognito skills are just astounding,” McCoy says as he leans back, finishes up his espresso. The shaking in his hands is finally stopping. “Really, I’d never assume you worked for a shadowy secret organization.”

“SHIELD isn’t _that_ shadowy,” Kirk says, and then looks like he’s thinking about it for a second. “Ok, kinda massively shadowy, but whatever, we just look like tourists trying to be cool.”

“I always succeed in that respect,” Derek says, dry, and Kirk raises an eyebrow, turning to look at him. 

“Derek, you think you’re cool but really, you’re not,” Kirk says.

“Tough love,” McCoy says. Kirk grins. Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. “Is he always this horrible?”

“Derek totally loves me,” Kirk says.

“I loved that one time you got knocked out for like two days in Prague and didn’t speak a single word. For two days. It was great,” Derek says. 

“You wound me,” Kirk says.

“Good,” Derek answers, and McCoy’s the one grinning now. 

“I think I might have misjudged you,” McCoy says. “I just thought you were brooding.”

“I have other talents as well,” Derek assures him. 

“Like attempting to rip out of leather jackets with hulking shoulders?”

“It’s better than your suit. You look like middle-management in an accounting firm.”

“You look like a _West Side Story_ reject.”

“You should see me snap and dance my way out of situations, I’m known for it.”

“I’m so glad, my life isn’t the worst ever, at least I’m not a tap-dancing SHIELD agent.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m the goddamn Batman around here.”

“In that your parents are dead?”

“Oh my god,” Kirk says, quietly, and they both turn to look at him. He’s got his sunglasses off, and he’s wide eyed, “it’s like a singularity. This is amazing, although I’m not sure if the world can survive under this much snark.”

“Nice job interrupting there,” Derek says, glaring. 

“Is this like some strange version of foreplay for the Tall, Dark, and Brooding species?” Kirk asks, leaning over the table and pointing at them with his sunglasses. “Because it’s hilarious.”

“Don’t make me make a ‘your face is hilarious’ joke, Jim,” Derek says darkly. 

\---

McCoy sorts through documents until his eyes are bleeding and his brain is liquid, and then sends it all crunched into nice, neat boxes to SHIELD so that they can try to track this Contessa. What matters to McCoy in all of this is that they’re tracking a rouge, highly trained agent on her own home turf, and that means she’s several days and about a hundred steps ahead of them. She’s not listed as a super, but some of the information about her suggests that she’s not exactly boring either. 

By the end of sorting through everything McCoy just wants to go home and never read about stupid SHIELD ever again, because, honestly? They’re kind of really scary. He misses the CIA, in all their comparative bland normalness. 

After everything is sent via some crazy secure channel on the laptop he’d been given, he heads out, leaving the apartment dark and empty (Kirk and Derek are on the hunt again) and wanders through back streets. Cafe tables and chairs and Vespas jam the narrow streets, and he winds his way through them and bright chatting people, hands in his pockets. 

He actually really enjoys traveling, never mind his whole fear of flying thing, and even he’s not bitter enough to find Rome obnoxious or boing. It actually reminds him of home a bit, something about the warmth of the people, gesturing wildly over wine after dinner. 

His phone rings, startling him slighty, and he sits down on a stoop to answer it. 

“McCoy.”

“It’s Jim – how close are you to being done?”

“I finished about half an hour ago, I sent everything I found back to your people.”

“Awesome, we’ll be back in like ten minutes.”

“I’m actually out as well, I’ll meet you guys there.”

He heads back, and he’s turning the corner when about eight people materialize out of nowhere and surround him, some incredibly angry looking guns pointed at his head. 

“Well shit,” McCoy says, raising his hands slowly. They’re dressed in all black, their faces hidden behind goggles and masks. They’re stormtroopers. He breaths out through his nose, wondering if attacking them would delay or speed up his inevitable death, and tries to force himself to stay as calm as possible. This is working to a certain degree until two of the goons shuffle to the side and reveal a woman, smirking in the dark light of the alley. Still, even in the dark, McCoy would recognize the shot of silver streaking through her hair in his sleep, he’s been staring at photos of her for hours. 

“Hello, Agent Hale,” she purrs, sauntering up to him and taking his chin in between her thumb and first finger. McCoy just frowns, he thought that Derek and Kirk both knew the Contessa, at least in passing in the way that all the top agents did.

“I’m-“ McCoy is cut off when bodies start flying. Something slams him back against the wall, out of harm’s way, and then that thing is Derek, knifing one of the goons in the stomach and the neck, two handed, and then he’s off again. Kirk is moving with him like they’re choreographing the fight in real time, practiced ease of movement, Kirk’s guns following Derek’s knives. The whole thing takes about three seconds and then McCoy is on the ground and there’s blood on his face somehow. He sucks in a shuddering breath, sliding down the wall as Derek presses a knife to the Contessa’s neck. 

“Fontaine, what the fuck do you think-“

Things click into place in McCoy’s brain.

“She’s not Agent Fontaine!”

Derek looks at him over the Contessa’s shoulder, although Kirk doesn’t move from where he’s got his gun trained on her. 

“You know her, right?” McCoy asks. “She thought I was you.”

Understand dawns in Derek’s eyes, and with one clean motion he snaps her neck. As the body goes sliding to the ground, her skin starts rippling, changing, and by the time it hit the floor there’s some horrible green creature where the Contessa just was. 

“What the fuck is that?” Kirk asks, moving to shove the body with his foot while Derek bends down to check for a pulse. 

“Alien,” Derek asks, looking up at Kirk. “I can’t remember the name right now, but there’s a race of them that are shifters.” 

McCoy is distantly aware that he’s still breathing, still alive, although it’s like life is moving too fast and too slow at the same time and there’s water in his ears, his mind. There are bodies on the ground, a number of them, and there is red running in the gutter down the middle of the cobblestones. He takes in a shuddering breath, lets it out, and when he looks up Derek is on his phone and Kirk is bending down over him, offering him a hand. 

“McCoy?” He stares at the hand, expecting blood there, but there’s nothing, just Kirk’s pale skin in the dull light from a window somewhere. “Leonard!”

That gets McCoy to take the hand, and Kirk pulls him up on unstable feet, but he somehow gets down the street, up the stairs, and finds himself laid out on a bed, staring at the ceiling. Kirk is over him, pulling off his jacket, and when Kirk kisses him he finally exhales, his eyes slipping closed as he reaches up to grab Kirk’s shoulders. Under his palms Kirk’s skin is warm and human and _alive_ through the thin material of his shirt. 

“You ok to do this?” Kirk asks, and McCoy nods, and tries not to think about what it says that Kirk’s first line of comfort is to offer sex and that evidently McCoy’s first line is to take that. 

“Yeah,” he says, surprised by how rough his own voice sounds, and Kirk peels him out of his clothes, tosses them away somewhere, and then vanishes for a moment to come back with a damp towel, pulling all the blood from McCoy’s skin. 

Kirk fucks him like he’s trying to force something from McCoy’s mind, leaving just a blank slate, and McCoy braces himself on his palms on the headboard, rolling with Kirk’s rhythm, his breath hitching on every thrust. When the bed drips he turns to see Derek is there, and he doesn’t stop him when he wraps a hand around him, just arches his hips up even further, into Kirk’s body and Derek’s hand. 

Later, when the world is moving at a speed he’s more used to again, he ends up pressed between them, stretched open by both of them, and he lets his head rest back against Derek’s shoulder, his arms anchored around Kirk’s neck. Whatever little broken, sobbing sounds he’s making get an answering growl out of Derek, and he can feel the vibrations across his back, where he’s pressed against Derek’s chest. There are hands on his hips and _god_ he’s never been this full, this closed in, this hot, but this way all he has to think about are the live bodies that are bracketing his, not the red among the cobblestones. 

\---

When he wakes up he feels like a spent match, burnt up and crooked, and it takes him a moment to realize that the reason he can’t feel his arm is because he’s sleeping on it at an odd angle. He groans, rolls onto his back, and opens his eyes slowly. There’s no one else in bed with him, but the sheets look like a small hurricane came through the room at some point during the night, and when he peeks over the edge of the bed there are clothes everywhere, and what he’s pretty sure is a condom wrapper. Or three. 

It’s like his college career has come back for a second act. It’s a horrifyingly close reenactment, although the safehouse is much nicer than any of his college apartments, and there are no crushed Keystone Light cans on the floor. 

He sits up slowly, and as he’s rubbing at his face images worm their way back into his head. First it’s foggy memories of the room with bodies thrown into sharp relief, Derek and Kirk and _fuck_ – McCoy shifts a bit, and yes, there’s definitely a twinge there, and heat in his cheeks. He’s not sure how that happened, or how he’s even still in one piece. After that there’s only Kirk, and then, then he doesn’t want to think anymore because all he sees is red in the gutter. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his head in his hands, and he’s not used to this. He was never trained for this. He’s not made of weapons and sharp angles like Kirk and Derek, he’s the kind of person who sits behind a desk and stares at a computer for ten hours (or more, often more) a day. This isn’t his life, it’s someone else’s life. It doesn’t belong to him. 

The door opens and he looks up to find Kirk at the bottom of the bed with an apple and a mug of coffee. 

“Um, sorry,” he says as he sits down, holding them out. McCoy gratefully takes them. “We don’t have much in the way of breakfast.”

“This is fine,” he says, and he means it. The coffee is scalding and black and it tastes like something that he knows, something that’s part of his life. He’s aware that Kirk is watching him, but he just turns to stare out the window, and the only sound in the room is the crunching of the apple. It’s only when he drops the core in the empty mug and sets it on one of the side tables that Kirk finally speaks up.

“I apologize for yesterday.” McCoy looks up at him, but his face is completely neutral. “You shouldn’t have been in that situation at all, and you shouldn’t have had to deal with the fallout.”

“I’ll get over it,” he mutters. “Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, but I do,” Kirk says. “People don’t necessarily react well to that kind of thing, if they’re not used to it.”

“I don’t know how you could get used to it.”

“It happens,” Kirk says, gives a small, one shouldered shrug, and McCoy gets the feeling that there’s a whole hell of a lot of stuff he doesn’t know about Kirk. “Look, we’re going to take shifts this morning, sweep around and see if we can figure out if there’s anyone else hiding around corners. Derek will be with you first – is that ok?”

“I don’t need-“

“Someone is going to be here,” Kirk says, suddenly fierce. “You’re not getting hurt. We’re not going to have a repeat of yesterday.”

Kirk takes the mug and leaves him alone to take a shower and put some clothes on, and when he opens the bedroom door Derek is sitting on the couch, arm draped over the back. He looks up when McCoy comes to join him, putting his feet up on the coffee table, and Derek doesn’t try to comfort him or anything as stupid, just offers him a strange little smile and goes back to watching TV. It’s some Italian soap opera, and McCoy doesn’t speak a word of the language, but Derek seems to enjoy it. 

“Here,” Derek says after the program is done, handing over the controller. “12 and 39 are the English language channels, I think _Mythbusters_ might be on.” 

It turns out to be an old episode of _The Weakest Link_ , but that’s ok, because he likes trivia programs – it’s something else that’s easy to latch onto, get distracted with. 

\---

He’s getting a glass of water when he hears a window creak open, the sound of the outside world leaking in. Both Kirk and Derek are out, Kirk is on McCoysitting duty, but he’d gone to get food, and McCoy is alone. He stays completely still, internally cursing himself (and Kirk) because his gun is sitting in his holster, which is currently on a chair in one of the bedrooms. He’s really beyond done with his life constantly being in danger. 

There are footsteps, quiet and clipped, and McCoy thinks that it might be a woman wearing heels, or at least a man who’s incredibly light on his feet. He edges towards the door, cracks it open ever so slightly. 

It is a woman, and she’s leading with her gun, moving slowly, back to him. McCoy chances a glance over his shoulder, grabs a knife from the knife block, and then kicks the door open, takes three long strides to get to her. 

This is how he ends up flipped over her shoulder and onto the ground, the wood flooring coming into contact with his back fast and hard enough to knock the air out of his body. 

While he’s trying to stop coughing she kneels down, the barrel of her gun pressed into his forehead. 

“And you are?” She asks, and when he looks up at her his whole body freezes.

“Oh shit,” he rasps. “Derek _killed_ you.”

“I figured as much,” the Contessa says. “Now, my original question. Who are you?”

“I’m just – I’m a contractor,” he says, and she looks down at him through narrowed eyes. His heart is going a million miles an hour, he can’t breath super well, and a dead woman is staring at him. 

“SHIELD doesn’t use contractors,” she says, but she pulls her gun back all the same and stands up, offering him a hand. 

“How are you not dead?” He asks, not taking her hand. 

“You killed an impersonator – I’m assuming the body reverted to its true form when you killed it?”

 _What even is my fucking life_ , McCoy thinks, but he just nods.

“I need to get in contact with SHIELD, do you have a laptop from them?” She asks, staring down at him. 

“How do I know I can trust you?” McCoy asks, rubbing at his chest. He can see the knife where it’s fallen to the floor behind her, and he thinks he might be able to get at it if he knocks her off her feet. Of course, she’d just flipped him around like he was a sack of potatoes, so maybe he’s not going to be able to achieve that. 

“You don’t,” she says. “Laptop? Don’t make me shoot you in the knees. You’re clearly not field material, I would say you haven’t been trained for any of this.”

She’s right, he hasn’t been. He groans, curses his life yet again, and rolls up to his feet, clearing his throat. His back is killing him now, and he’s more than happy to drop down onto the couch and open up the computer. She takes it from him as soon as he’s gotten everything booted up, and she launches a program he’s never seen before. He’s afraid he’s just given a computer to a madwoman to steal secrets with when the computer starts ringing. Someone answers on the third ring. 

“Code in.” The voice on the other end crackles with static. 

“Scorpio,” the Contessa says. 

“Due to currently enacted protocols we’re operating with two levels of security.”

“Kratos.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then the static voice comes back. 

“Agent Fontaine, how can I help you?” 

“I need Director Fury.”

“He’s off site – I can put you through to Coulson.”

“Do it.”

McCoy just stares at the computer. He’d been working on the damn thing for a week and had no idea it had a direct line to SHIELD. 

SHIELD, because they would be like that, put them on hold, complete with music. The Contessa paces for a bit, but when McCoy sighs and scoots over she joins him on the couch, crossing one long leg over the other. 

“My life was not this weird or horrible last week,” McCoy says to the room at large. “I think I might even miss my desk.

The Contessa makes a sound of disgust, like just the thought of a desk job personally offends her. This is also when the front door opens and she snaps to her feet, gun drawn again and trained on the two people who have just come through the door. Derek is looking menacing behind Kirk, who’s got a gun tucked into his shoulder, glaring over the top of it at the Contessa. 

“Why do you have a submachine gun?” McCoy asks Kirk, rubbing at his face. 

“Is that hold music?” Kirk asks. 

“I snapped your neck,” Derek growls, and the Contessa stays silent, her eyes never moving from Derek and Kirk. 

“Agent Fontaine?” Someone is speaking from the computer. “Sorry about the wait.”

“Coulson, how do you know this is actually Fontaine?” Kirk asks the voice on the computer, and McCoy just slides down a bit further in the couch. This whole thing is ridiculous. 

“She coded in ok,” Coulson says. “I kind of hope there aren’t two Fontaine impersonators running around.”

“There are not,” the Contessa says. “Stand down, I’m trying to have an incredibly important conversation.”

No one moves to set down any weapons. 

“Down!” McCoy finally snaps, and amazingly this works, in that it gets everyone to relax just a tick and look at him instead. 

“Glad I could be there for your little party – who is that?” Coulson says. “And who’s there anyway?”

“Kirk and Hale,” Derek answers. “And a civilian contractor, Leonard McCoy.”

“Not a civilian,” McCoy points out.

“Not important,” the Contessa says. “Coulson, we have a situation.”

“I’d expect so – where’d you go? The Director’s a bit displeased about the whole situation.”

“He would be. I was attempting to figure out who, or what, was trying to take my place, after they failed to kill me.”

“You found out?”

“Skrulls, Coulson. And I’m not the only one they’re after.”

This is met by silence, and whatever the hell that means is evidently shocking enough for everyone to finally lower their weapons the rest of the way. 

“Shit,” Coulson says. 

“Understatement of the century,” Kirk says. 

McCoy has no idea what any of this means. He sighs again, tips his head back against the back of the couch, and Kirk just raises an eyebrow at him. 

\---

McCoy is drinking coffee from a flimsy paper cup (all of his mugs are somehow in the office dishwasher, which is currently running) and staring at a map on his wall, when there’s a knock on his door.

“No, I still haven’t narrowed it down any more than ‘Eurasia’, but thanks for coming to make fun of me for that again, Chapel,” he grouses, and when someone laughs from behind him he turns around slowly to find Jim motherfucking Kirk leaning in his open office door. There’s a man standing behind him, almost a full head shorter than him and wearing a bland suit that makes him blend into the office rather seamlessly. 

“Oh no,” McCoy says, drinking the last of his coffee and then dropping the cup in the waste bin with no small amount of force. “No more adventures, I’ve had it. I am never leaving the greater DC area _ever again_.”

“I don’t know, New York was pretty nice,” Kirk says with a shrug. 

“New York is a hive of scum and villainy. And bedbugs. And hipsters.”

“Hey, hipsters can be nice.”

McCoy glares, and then sits down at his computer so that he can open up his email and ignore the man currently leaning in his door like he owns the damn thing. 

“Mr. McCoy, we do actually have a reason for being here,” the other man says, and the voice makes McCoy start – he’s heard it before, over a very bad satellite connection. He turns to look at him, narrowing his eyes a bit.

“You’re Coulson,” McCoy says. 

“ _Agent_ Coulson, of SHIELD,” he says. “We’re here to offer you a job. Well, actually, I’m here to offer you a job, Kirk tagged along because he wanted to annoy you.”

“I did not say annoy,” Kirk protests, but Coulson just smiles at him serenely.

“It was implied,” he responds, before turning back to McCoy. “Your analysis of the materials provided to you in the field was a skill we could use.”

“I’ll work with you when hell freezes over,” McCoy says, glaring. 

“That can be arranged,” Coulson says. “We know the right people.”

“Why do I not doubt that,” McCoy mutters, and starts typing out a rather caustic email to Christine. She won’t care, she thinks it’s funny how angry he gets. 

“Look, you’re bored,” Kirk says. “You jumped at the call, basically. I mean, you did a whole hell of a lot of protesting but I feel like that’s your usual MO, and you had your mind made up the minute someone came in here with a folder that had just enough information removed to be totally frustrating.”

“I like my job,” McCoy says. 

“I’m sure you do,” Coulson says. “I just think you’ll like this one better.”

“Over my dead body,” McCoy says.

“Hopefully not,” Coulson says. 

“C’mon, McCoy,” Kirk says, grins that insufferable grin of his, “give it a chance. You’ll love it.”

“I hate you,” McCoy says with a sigh. “How come Derek didn’t come on this little kidnapping mission?”

“I knew you liked him better,” Kirk says with a mock pout. 

“Tall, dark and snarky,” McCoy says, smirks. “You would know.”

“Kirk,” Coulson says, pinches the bridge of his nose. “What have I said about sleeping with coworkers?”

“We aren’t coworkers yet,” Kirk points out, “and if it’s not allowed, what are you doing with Barton?” McCoy has no idea who that is, but Coulson does go a rather interesting shade of red. 

“You’re all crazy,” McCoy says. 

“Come be crazy with us,” Kirk says. 

McCoy thinks about banging his head on his computer screen, but then he’d probably get his sorry ass concussed and really, Kirk is right. The lady doth protest too much, goddamn his stupid repressed sense of adventure. 

\---

They’re standing on a dusty path somewhere in the mountains between Serbia and Bulgaria, McCoy hasn’t seen a map in a couple of hours, and Derek is perched above them on a boulder, watching the traffic down at the bottom of the ravine through a pair of binoculars. 

“Hey,” Jim asks conversationally, and McCoy sighs, because conversations with Jim are never just conversations. “What’s your code in?”

“You don’t need to know that,” McCoy grumbles, adjusting Jim’s rifle from where he’s got it resting against his shoulder while Jim fiddles with the GPS. 

“I could just look it up,” Jim says. “And you do realize that it is need to know, because we work together?”

“Yeah, so if I’m coding it, you’ll be with me, ergo, I won’t be coding in to you.”

“Never know. Better safe than sorry. It could save your life. We could be-“

“Oh my god, Jim, shut the fuck up.”

Derek laughs from over their heads, that rumbled growl of his. 

“First level is Sawbones/Katra,” Derek says, and McCoy turns to look up at him, glowering. Derek smirks right back down at him, and McCoy thinks about finding a rock to throw at him. 

“What the hell is a katra?” Jim asks. 

“You need to watch more classic sci-fi,” McCoy says. 

“Eyes on target,” Derek says. “Time to move.”

Jim takes the rifle back from McCoy, and he pulls out his own gun. 

“Ready to go, Bones?” Jim asks, and McCoy raises an eyebrow. 

“You can’t nickname me my all-clear Jim, that’s a massive security risk,” McCoy points out.

“There’s no one here but us and wind,” Jim says, and then gives him a wink before jogging off after Derek. McCoy heaves a long suffering sigh and then, doing a quick check behind them, heads off after the other two, bringing up the rear through the dust and dry plants, a new sky perfect and blue above them. 

If McCoy has learned a third thing in life, it’s that making friends with the wrong people isn’t always a bad thing.


End file.
